


Love Like Weeds

by Alexei_Dmitryevitch_Sudayev



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Historical Inspired Fiction, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexei_Dmitryevitch_Sudayev/pseuds/Alexei_Dmitryevitch_Sudayev
Summary: Love is like a weed, it grows through the cracks.They can try to kill it,try to uproot it,and yetIt flourishes even in these dirty alleysand in this filthy bed.A story about three lives as they intertwine across the years.





	1. Love Like Weeds - Alexei Sudayev

Love is like a weed, it grows through the cracks. 

They can try to kill it, 

try to uproot it, 

and yet 

It flourishes even in these dirty alleys

and in this filthy bed.

Love is like a weed, it grows among the rocks.

Filling the spaces left for it

They underestimate it. 

They say it amounts to nothing

They say there's no room for it

And yet…

And yet. 

In these dirty alleys and this filthy bed

Love is the only seed we can sow

Love is like a weed, it spreads beyond the cracks.

They can try to deride it,

They can try to divide it

And yet

This is home.

This is where no one can be owned

No one can be taken away.

A weed belongs to the city,

To the poor

To the oppressed. 

Love is the only green we can claim.

Love is like a weed, it flourishes.

Love is the harvest we reap

In these dirty alleys

And in this filthy bed.

  
  



	2. Anastasia - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1906

The snow fell outside. Anastasia could see it from her window. She wanted so badly to go to the party with everyone else. Even Masha got to go, and she was only two years older than Anastasia! It wasn’t fair.

There was a knock at her bedroom door, and Anastasia hopped off her bed, going to open it. Beyond the door was her grandmother, dressed in the latest fashion from Paris. “Nana!” she cried, embracing her.

“Hello, my precious Anastasia,” her grandmother murmured. They walked back to her bed. Anastasia practically jumped up onto the mattress as nana sat gracefully beside her.

“Why aren’t you at the party, Nana?”

“Because… I came to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“I’m leaving, for Paris.”

“Take me with you!” Anya cried.

“You’ll come and visit me, with your sisters and little brother and your parents. We’ll be together again, in Paris.”

“But… take me with you now! I wanna go! I can’t even go to the party. Why can’t I go with you?”

“Soon. I promise.” Her Nana reached into the little purse. “Here.”

Anastasia’s eyes lit up. “What is it, Nana?”

“A music box. So no matter where I go, we’ll always be together.” Her grandmother held it up, winding a crank on the bottom. “When you play it, think of an old woman who loves you very much.” The lid of the box opened, revealing tiny figurines of her parents, twirling round and round to straining chimes of her favourite lullaby. She threw herself around her grandmother, face lit up once more.

“Thank you, Nana! It’s wonderful!”

The door opened, and Anastasia could hear her mother’s shoes on the floor. “Have you said your prayers my precious Anastasia?”

“Yes, mama.”

“For your father, the Tsar? For your sisters and brothers? For Russia, herself?”

Anastasia nodded. “Yes, mama. I promise.”

“And what is  _ that _ ?” Her mother pointed, stern, commanding, not mama now, but the Tsarina. Anasatia was quick to tuck the precious trinket behind her back, eyes downcast, even as Nana spoke for her.

“A music box, so the child will remember me.”

Her mother sighed. “Better prayers than music boxes in these  _ difficult _ times.”

Another pair of footsteps echoed down the hall, these heavier. Anastasia grinned up as her father entered the room. 

“It’s the last dance of the winter season, Mama. All Petersburg will be there!”

“We’ve been through this--”

“She’s right,  _ Nicki _ .”

Anastasia looked between the adults. They were talking so strangely. And… it certainly was odd for Nana not to stay for the party. Nana loved parties! But with a smile, and a gentle caress of her hand, Nana was standing up. “Remember, Anastasia. Paris.”

The girl nodded, so solemn and serious as the Dowager Empress bustled out of the child’s bedroom. Nana always came back. She always did. But now it was different, there was something in the air. But Nana couldn’t just go!

“Nana? Nana!” Anastasia hopped off her bed dashing towards her door. Nana  _ couldn’t _ go! But her father was faster than she, catching her before she could make headway and returning her to her bed. She squirmed, trying to get out of his solid grasp. He didn’t understand! She looked up at him as he set her down, eyes full of tears. His smile was just as gentle as it had been before everything had changed. Her tears were quick to melt into fiery determination. She had a mission! She had to make Nana come back! But then her papa held his hand out, smile growing brighter.

“The Tsar requests the first dance of the evening, Mademoiselle!”

Immediately, Anastasia straightened her back and held her hand out. Papa knew how big she was, how capable. Papa wanted a dance! And so she would be a proper little lady.

“I am the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova!” she declared, her grin only equal to her father’s, and all thoughts of her desperate mission abandoned. He helped her off the bed, his warmth filling her as he took her hands so gently. From elsewhere in the palace, the faint strains of music began. Her father’s hands were so big, covering hers, guiding her onwards in the steps she’d been practicing so hard. They danced for what seemed like forever, until she yawned, tripping over her feet.

“Time for bed now, my precious Anastasia,” her mother murmured, a soft smile playing on her lips. The Tsarina was gone, and mama was back, warm and happy just like she and papa were. Once more her father set her in bed, settling her under the blankets. She didn’t fight it this time, taking only a moment to snuggle under her thick quilt, sleep falling over her in waves.

Two pairs of lips pressed kisses to her forehead, and Anastasia fell asleep, here at the palace she called home, with the love of her family all the warmth she needed.

No longer would she worry about Nana, or the snow.


	3. Gleb - Yekaterinburg, Russia, 1906

Gleb sits quietly in the living room of their little house, working on his schoolwork. His father is across the room, home from work at a normal time for once. He holds baby Sofia gently, the way Gleb rarely does. Of course, Gleb has little interest in his baby sister. She is not nearly as interesting as his books and his studies.

Gleb's father is not like Gleb. He cares deeply about the baby. Stepan Vaganov is a good and honorable man. He works hard to provide for his family. Perhaps, one day, Gleb will be the same.

Stepan Vaganov is far closer to Sofia than he is to Gleb. There are a number of reasons. After all, Gleb isn't an idiot. His parents were young and in love nearly ten years ago, their wedding seven months before Gleb Vaganov came screaming into the world.

Gleb turns back to his schoolwork as his father begins to coo at the baby. Cold. Detached. A good and loyal Russian. A father. The only father Gleb has ever known. 

There is another side to Gleb’s father. The one that appears when his friends come visit. He is still doing his schoolwork when they arrive. His father gives Gleb a look.

“Go to your room, Glebka. This doesn’t concern you.”

Gleb is still young, still just a boy. But still… He longs so desperately to be included in his father’s secret meetings. He is curious, and he is ten years old now, or almost there. So he walks up the stairs and opens the door to his room before shutting it. Then he creeps back to the top of the steps, hiding just out of sight.

He can hear their voices, his father’s and his uncles’, deep, gruff, and full of whispers. He can only make out a few phrases here and there.

“...Moscow...”   


“...Tsar Nicholas…”

“... right bastard he is…”

He sits for what seems like hours when the men laugh, and there’s the sound of bottles clinking -- Vodka. A quiet toast, and the secret meeting is over. Now, it is just a social meeting. Guests for dinner, and Mama made stroganoff.

Gleb grins and tiptoes back to his room, afraid of getting caught. He wants nothing more than to be included in the meeting, but he is still only a boy. He sighs and dreams of the day he will be invited into the group.


	4. Dmitry - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1906

Something big is happening. Papa has been talking in whispers again, his friends only coming over at night, never saying hi to Dmitry, closing him out of his father’s office before he is sent to bed.

Papa has been quiet on their walks too. When he asks, all Papa would say is, “I’m thinking about things, Dima.”

Dmitry isn’t stupid. Papa tells him all kinds of things. Papa says they shouldn’t be afraid to share their thoughts with anyone, even if they have to be careful. Papa is trying to keep things from him.

It will be fine. They are always fine, even when his uncles stop visiting and Papa cries in his office.

It  _ has _ to be fine.

Papa makes dinner for them. He’s done it ever since Mama passed away. The house is warm, the candles making everything bright. There’s stew on the stovetop, and the kettle is full of water for a warm cup of tea. After dinner, Papa has promised a story, whatever Dmitry’s heart desires. The house is cozy, comforting as Dmitry crawls into his little bed, pulling the blankets up. He’s drowsy, but Papa will come soon. Papa will come and tell him a bedtime story. They’ll be happy. They’re already happy. Everything is fine and right. He waits, and fights, but his tired eyes droop against his will. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

It is dark when Dmitry is shaken awake. The only light comes from the candle his father is holding.

The boy blinks, trying to climb out of his grogginess and focus.

“Papa…?”

“Shh, shh… You’ve got nothing to worry about, Dima.”

“Papa… I waited an’ waited for you… Wha’s happenin’?”

“I had some work to do. I’ve got to go out now, Dima.”

Dmitry frowns. This isn’t right! Papa is still hiding something, trying to keep him from worrying.

“Stay! Y-you promised a story a-and we can drop the work off t’morrow!”

“I’m sorry, Dima.” The words are heavy like the iron anchors of the ships that sail the Neva. Dmitry’s face falls. Papa isn’t playing, not this time.

“I’m so proud of you, my son. You remember what I told you right?”

“No one is born better than anyone else. We… We make ourselves better than our circumstances.”

Dmitry’s father nods, smiling. “That’s it, Dima. Now… Go back to sleep.”

“But Papa… Don’t go!”

"Remember Dima. Stay safe. Don't go near the palaces. And never feel beholden to bow to anyone, be they a Count or a Tsar or even a God."

Dmitry grabs his father’s sleeve. “Please, Papa… Stay here. D-don’t go. Don’t leave!”

"I must. For love of Russia, and love of you, my son. I’ll be back before you wake up in the morning, I promise.”

Dmitry cries out again, but his father presses a kiss to his forehead, and then… Dmitry is alone. He curls up in his bed. His Papa will come back, he has to.

Papa promised.

The house is quiet. There is no smell of food cooking, or sound of tea brewing. No whisper in the study, no footsteps in the hall. The house is still and silent as death itself. The light is faint, too faint to illuminate anything.

Dmitry wakes up.

He is alone.

And the world is grey.


	5. Dmitry - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1906

The house is cold, but it is all Dmitry has now. He keeps it clean. He wants Papa back. Papa will come back, he has to. Dmitry settles into a simple routine: eating just enough of their food to get by, reading the books his Papa left behind, and above all else, staying quiet. It’s cold, but he pulls the quilt from Papa’s bed onto his own smaller one.

He loses track of the days. He wants to go outside, to feel the weak winter sun on his face, to walk the streets the way he did with his Papa, but he knows that it’d be dangerous. If he goes out alone… If someone finds out what happened… He doesn’t want to be taken away and thrown in an orphanage. He is Dmitry Fyodorovitch Sudayev, and he will fight just like his Papa. No one is better than anyone else, and no one deserves to be mistreated because of circumstance.

He does go out sometimes, to get more food using the rubles his Papa kept hidden in the house. While he’s out, he looks for other places, safe places. He doesn’t want to leave his Papa’s books, he doesn’t want to leave his  _ home _ , but he can’t stay here forever. He’s only seven. He can’t get a job, and without a job, he won’t be able to afford the rent. The landlord’s already come by twice, banging on the door. Both times, Dmitry has curled up under the table, melting into the shadows.

He’s running out of time.

Dmitry writes a list of all of his Papa’s books, painstakingly copying the titles and authors in his shaky handwriting. He knows he can’t take them all with him, but there are few he won’t leave behind.  _ Dead Souls, Demons,  _ and  _ The Death of Ivan Ilyich _ are his Papa’s favorites. They go in his Papa’s bag, the one Dmitry is going to take with him. Those are the ones he’ll keep close with him, but he’ll find someplace safe for the others.

After the books, he takes his clothes, shoving them into his Papa’s old case. The few rubles he has remaining are forced into his coat pocket. His Papa’s hat rests firmly on his head, dropping over his eyes and his floppy brown hair. He can’t wait for the landlord to come again, demanding money Dmitry is no longer able to part with.

It’s a dark night in St. Petersburg. Dmitry pulls his Papa’s bag over his shoulder and takes the case in hand. He takes a deep breath, half remembering something said by an old woman he met once, and for the last time, he sits by his door and looks over his home, his sanctuary.

And then he steps away from childish things.

St. Petersburg is no place for a child.


	6. Anastasia - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1906

Anastasia can’t look at Mama. She knows she’s in trouble, but she doesn’t understand why Masha isn’t here too. They’re both responsible for the prank, after all.

“Anastasia.”

She looks up, eyes wide. “Y-yes, Mama?”

“Do you understand what you did wrong?”

“Y-yes Mama.”

Mama sighs and paces the floor again. “Then what on earth possessed you to do something so… so  _ childish _ ?!”

Anastasia shrinks into the couch. She can’t say that it was entirely her idea. Masha had been the one to suggest it. But Mama loves Masha, and Olya, and Tatya. Anastasia is the only one who gets in trouble for things.

“I-it was Masha’s idea, Mama. We just… wanted to play a trick on them.”

“Oh it was  _ Maria _ ’ _ s _ idea? I find that very hard to believe.”

Anastasia nods. Maria is devious, even more so than Anastasia. It was Maria’s idea. Anastasia was merely the instrument through which the prank was played.

Her mother clicks her tongue, and shakes her head. “Do you think this is the way a princess ought to behave?”

Anastasia shakes her head. She should know better. She knows that. But it was just a silly game, a little trick! Didn’t other girls play tricks too? Hadn’t her Mama ever played a trick? They were only frogs. Three harmless, little frogs.

“It’s not my fault they dont like frogs!” she cries out, face pleading for any kind of mercy.

“Well, I can’t imagine anyone wanting a frog in their bed! You mark me, there will be consequences for this!”

“B-but Mama!” It isn’t fair! Masha had been the mastermind! Anastasia is innocent. Or at the very least, she’s not as guilty as Mama always insists she is.

“No buts! Now, I will have to discuss punishments with your father.”

Anastasia’s face falls and she looks to the ground. No one ever believes her.

“What are you discussing with me, Alix dear?” Her father’s voice is cheery, booming, and in an instant Anastasia lights up running to him.

“Papa! Papa it wasn’t my fault, Masha planned it I promise, it was just some frogs, no one got hurt please Papa!”

Her mother scowls as he laughs and scoops her up into his big strong arms. “Don’t tell me you’re entertaining this nonsense  _ Nicki _ .”

“Oh she’s just a child. You won’t put frogs in their beds again, will you, Nastya?”

“No Papa! I promise!” She could cry with relief. Her papa always understands.

“Well then, off to the nursery with you. Your mama and I must discuss adult things now.”

“Yes Papa!” With a kiss to her head he sets her down again, letting her dash off through the palace.

Alexandra sighed as she watched the child go. “You’ll only encourage her Nicki.”

“Ah, my dearest, she’s only a child still. It’s better to let her play while she can.”

She shook her head, a slight smile creeping onto her face. “Well… I suppose that’s true. But if it happens again, she won’t get off so easy.”

He smiled back, and kissed her forehead. “Of course not.”

Anastasia had placed the frogs, yes, and it had been childish. But what was the point of a child if not to act like one, to make a father smile and a mother fret? Anastasia would be a child as long as they could let her.


	7. Gleb - Yekaterinburg, Russia, 1906

The soldiers come through at least once a week, escorting new political prisoners. Most of Yekaterinburg hates them. Gleb can understand the frustrations. Their city is not a place for passing through. It is not the Tsar’s little playground or jail cell. It is a home. And it is theirs.

It does not stop Gleb from walking down to where the prisoners are held. He likes to look at their faces, see the men and women that the Tsar is so afraid of. Some of them look barely older than he is. They must be students, revolutionaries. Others look older, like his father and his father’s friends. They were not careful like father was. They had been caught. They had been unlucky.

Gleb makes up stories for them, in the back of his mind. Stories, about who they were before their arrests, stories about the families they left behind. He would never tell his father what he’s been doing in his free time. Stepan Vaganov wouldn’t understand. Stepan Vaganov wants his son to be a proper academic, putting his talents to proper use. Stepan Vaganov has no use for stories.

Gleb stays just out of sight of the soldiers. From his hiding spot, he has a view of the whole camp. Most of the men stay huddled close together, heads bent in. Planning to run, Gleb thinks. They won’t get far if they try -- the sound of gunfire is also familiar to him. One man stays off to the side, away from the group. He’s the one who draws Gleb’s interest.

He’s older than most of the men Gleb sees, but not by much. His hair is dark, flopping into his face, his eyes dark but full of spark and flame. He was arrested for… spreading rumors about the Tsar, Gleb decides. Nothing too damaging, but the kind of thing that gets people taken away in the middle of the night. He could be a father, Gleb thinks. A little family back home, in Moscow or Petersburg. One of the big cities. A wife, with a kind smile and her hair in a braid, and a baby in her arms. There’s a little girl, maybe two or three, shy and hiding behind her mother’s skirts, and a boy.

The boy is… not quite Gleb’s age. A few years younger, perhaps. He is outgoing, smart, brash. If he isn’t careful, he’ll end up exactly like his father, in a Tsarist labor camp out in Siberia, ultimately too clever for his own good. It’s a nice little story. Perhaps his son will grow up, and travel to find his missing father. Perhaps the boy will grow up, and escape the mess his father left behind. Or perhaps the whole family just collapses from grief-- No, no, that was too much. Gleb sighs and slowly gets up from his hiding spot. He needs to head home before his parents begin to worry. He rarely deviates from his after-school routine, and he knows how his mother frets. He dusts off his pants and begins the long, grey walk home, avoiding the long line of marching prisoners, heading farther east.

Gleb knows that the world is not a happy place, but he has a family. He has parents and a little sister and a life here. The world might not be a happy place, but he is happy, and that is enough.

He never sees the floppy haired man again.

Just one more casualty of the Tsar’s grey march.


	8. Author Commentary

**Love Like Weeds Poem**

This poem began as a mission statement, me trying to explain what this story actually is to someone, and then spun into something more. It serves as the rock and mission, the main thesis if you will, of this endeavour.

  
**Anastasia**

This first piece was meant to provide a little more depth to the beginning of Anastasia’s story. The opening scene of Anastasia (both Broadway and 1997 film) show the strong relationship between Anasasia and Maria Feodorovna, as well as the relationship between Anastasia and her parents. While none of the action changes from the stage blocking, we wanted to actually look at her mind, and bring the scene to life in our own way, as we’d like to again later on. As with all these first pieces, the focus is strong on the “Family” aspect of “Home, Love, Family”, a recurring theme of the Anastasia universe.

**Gleb**

As with Anya’s piece, this is designed to give some insight into Gleb’s childhood, setting up where he comes from, and why his family life may have turned out as it does. By extension, It also begins to lay out Gleb’s path in life, becoming first a soldier in the Russian Army, and then later a Cheka officer serving under Bolshevik rule. This piece was also written to show the difference in the relationship Gleb has with his father compared to the relationships Anastasia has with her father and Dmitry with his.

  
**Dmitry**

Dmitry’s story is really where the story begins. Fyodor’s arrest (something mentioned in the show but not the movie) is what triggers Dmitry’s story and brings the three main characters together. Fyodor’s arrest sets Dmitry on his path to finding Gleb and, eventually, Anastasia and Paris. Fyodor is arrested following the events of Bloody Sunday, wherein political protesters and petitioners were massacred after poor handling by the Tsar. After said events, with the rise of revolutionaries, and more assassinations in the royal family than ever, the Tsar cracked down on any and all dissidents, sending them to labour camps. There’s a very clear divide present between the Tsar as a man and father and the Tsar as ruler, that this only really scrapes the surface of.

  
**Dmitry**

This ficlet picks up directly after the events of Dmitry’s first chapter. In this, we wanted to touch a bit on a Russian custom of sitting to pause and reflect before you leave. We also wanted to reference the fact that Dmitry’s father was a student and an anarchist. Many of the anarchists and revolutionaries began their careers as students getting mobilised in freer thinking colleges. Later on, they spread their ideas to middle class workers, especially as leaders saw fit in order to meet their agendas. The books mentioned are all ones that Fyodor Sudayev would feasibly have owned and studied from, though it’s unlikely dmitry would have fully understood what they meant until he grew older.

**Anastasia**

This one was just meant to be a fun one that showed a lighter side of the Romanov family. Having done a significant amount of reading on the lives of the Romanov daughters and the family’s day-to-day life, we feel confident that this is exactly the kind of thing Anastasia Romanov could and would have done (with help from the servants). This one is also interesting because we have a section at the end focusing on Nicki and Alexandra’s point of view. While the section we read from Anastasia is in present tense, the section from Nicki and Alexandra is in past tense. This was entirely intentional, and was meant to demonstrate the difference between the living and the dead. This is another one that highlights how different Nicholas is as a father and as a ruler, and how the various characters may grow up with complicated mixed feelings about him.

**Gleb**

This Gleb ficlet was designed to show the historical impact of the Tsar’s obsession with arresting anarchists. Yekaterinburg was the doorway to Siberia, and political prisoners were transported through the city, much to the dislike of the people living there. Gleb is said to have grown up in Yekaterinburg, across the street from the Ipatiev house, and therefore would have been witness first hand to the near-constant march of prisoners through the city. This gives some basis for why Gleb might feel as he does about Russia, and her government. He’s seen first hand how people suffer politically, and understands suffering in an academic sense. 


	9. Dmitry - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1906

The chill of Autumn leaks into Dmitry’s bones in the same way he creeps through the city -- sneaking, dashing, always showing up when least expected. In the lovely golden hours of Summer, Dmitry had paid little attention to the nightly chills, knowing they’d be chased away by the sun’s sharp rays.

A boy didn’t have the strength to cart a blanket around like a bent babushka.

At first, he left the heavy quilt with the rest of his things. He hid them carefully, eager to protect them from the other children just like him. But not carefully enough it seemed. The day he’d returned to the mess he’d had to fight the tears away. No more blanket, no safe store of food, and only the little bit of money he had in his pockets. The only things he had now were the bag of Papa’s books and the hat on his head, and stubborn will to survive.

Every day that passed was shorter than the last, and the river winds courted the nights filling them with the promise of frost soon to come. Dmitry pulls his jacket closer, wishing he still had the quilt, wishing he’d been more clever in hiding. He was going to freeze if he didn’t figure something out soon. Winter in St. Petersburg came hard and fast, and at this rate, he’d be better off jumping into the Neva than wandering the streets. It would probably be warmer.

A year ago, he would have been playing with all the other children, running through the streets and alleyways. Now, he has to be a grown up. His Papa has been gone for months, and Dmitry knows what’s happened. He won’t see Papa again, no matter how much he hopes. He’s heard the talk. Siberia. No one comes back from there, and it’s colder than even here.

Dmitry watches the sun begins to set over the streets of Petersburg, watching the last lights set the spires of his Papa’s church alight with a golden blaze. For a moment, he hears his father’s voice, telling him to stay strong, that he’ll be okay, he’ll figure it out.

_ You’re a clever boy, Dima. Don’t let that go wasting away. Remember what I taught you? _

Dmitry smiles. For the first time in weeks, he has an idea.

It’s more than easy to find where people gather, at least for a scamp like him. After all, these are the people who have fed him, clothed him, become like family to him over the last few months. Well, family might be a strong word. But they were his people now. Begging won’t help, but begging isn’t his only talent. A merchant calls out, advertising blankets, with a tone that implies they weren’t handwoven. It won’t matter soon, where the blankets came from. With a brave face, Dmitry smiles, and approaches the man.

“Sir… Sir, may I have a blanket please?”

The man scoffed. “Why should I give some rat a blanket?”

“Because sir, people like me. M’ just a boy y’know…”

“Hah, try again. Scamper!”

“Sir, I mean it! I’ll give you half my earnin’s from begging. Half sir!”

The man shook his head. “Mmhm, and I’m supposed to just trust you?”

Dmitry balked for a second, deflated. This was not part of the plan. Time for something new.

“Sir… I’ll give you my bag sir. And then I’ll bring you back more than the blankets worth, but you gotta gimmee my bag back. Promise sir, all I want is a blanket.”

The man grinned, and laughed. “Cheeky lad aren’t you? Tell me, d’you need work?”

Dmitry nodded eagerly. Hah! Better than planned.

“Alright. Go get me your good lad, and come back tomorrow. No bag needed. I’ll give you a blanket, and if it’s in my interest… you may find a job.”

With a handshake, and enthusiastic shouts, Dmitry scampered off again through Petersburg, keeping a bright eye out for the trinkets he’d learnt people left undefended. A blanket was a start.

Autumn crept through the city, and with it, so did Dmitry.


	10. Anastasia - Tsarkoye Selo, Russia, 1907

Anastasia can’t believe it. Nana always comes to Christmas. But this year, the festivities come and go with nothing more than a letter, a necklace and a porcelain doll from Paris. She lays in bed, heartbroken. The doll looks exactly like her, and she should be elated that Nana would think to get her something so special, but it’s just a doll. On her bedside table, the music box from Nana plays the familiar melody of Anastasia’s lullaby.

“What’s the matter, Nastasya?” The door creaks open and Anastasia looks over to see Maria standing in the doorway.

“Nana didn’t come. Nana always comes for Christmas and she didn’t come this year and why didn’t she come?”

Maria sits on the edge of Anastasia’s bed. “Papa said it’s hard to travel from Paris to St. Petersburg, and besides, Nana sent you a letter and such a pretty doll, which is more than any of us got. All we got were necklaces. You’re her favorite, you know.”

Anastasia glances at the music box, the melody having stopped. She rolls over, sighing dramatically. “It’s not the  _ same _ ! Nana is supposed to be here! It’s not Christmas otherwise.”

“Nastasya, we’ll go see Nana this summer, after your birthday. Papa said so.”

“We were supposed to go visit her last summer, and then Papa was too busy. We’ll just end up stuck here and what if I never see Nana again?”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course we’ll see her again.” Maria ruffles Anastasia’s copper curls. “Now come on. Mama’s looking for you.”

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay here.”

“Nastya, it’s a party. Do you want to go? Papa said he won’t dance until he dances with you.”

“Then he can sit and watch,” Anastasia replies. She doesn’t want to go to a party. She doesn’t want to dance. She wants to see Nana, but Nana is in Paris.

“Nastya… C’mon. It’ll be so much fun to dance with you. And you’re already wearing your dress. Just a little while? I’m sure Mama will make us go to bed before too long anyways.”

Anastasia sighs again, but slowly pushes herself off of her bed. “Fine. I’ll go to the stupid party.”

Maria claps her hands together before reaching for Anastasia’s. “Maybe if we’re really lucky, we can make Auntie Lily get us a glass of champagne!”

Maria’s attitude is infectious, and Anastasia can’t help the grin that spreads across her cheeks as they race down the stairs of the Alexander Palace toward the Christmas party Mama’s planned. The girls’ laughter echoes through the hallways.

Christmas is, after all, a time for family and joy. Anastasia is quick to lose herself in the holiday spirit, her sadness melting like the spring snows.


	11. Gleb - Yekaterinburg, Russia, 1907

The worst part of Christmas, Gleb thinks, is sitting through Mass. Father usually gets him out of going to church with Mama, but she doesn’t budge when it comes to Christmas and Easter.

His suit is too big, ill-fitting. Mama said he’d grow into it, but it’s uncomfortable. Gleb sits still on the hard wooden pew. Sofia has an excuse to squirm and be noisy. She’s a baby still, not yet two years old. But Gleb is older, a grown boy. He has to sit still and recite his prayers with everyone else in the church.

Still, he feels his Mama’s glare boring into his skull. His legs ache from the sitting and standing and kneeling. Father hasn’t joined them. Stephan Vaganov is not a religious man, and as the man of the household, he can choose not to join them.

Gleb wishes he had that same ability. He isn’t even sure he believes in God, especially not the way his Mama does. He doesn’t want to sit in the church with the soulless eyes of the saints staring at him. It’s uncomfortable, and he wants to shift in his seat.

“Sit still, Glebka,” his mother hisses, and Gleb freezes up. He tries to listen to the priest, but the air is heavy with the perfume of incense and candle smoke and Gleb is tired from staying up the night before. The words are just a buzz, going in one ear and out the other.

Gleb follows the ritual, trying to find comfort in the familiar, but as soon as it ends, he practically sprints from the church, desperate to get a lungful of fresh air. There’s snow on the ground and the children are already beginning to run home for scarves and sleds, eager to spend the day outside while mothers continue to work on Christmas feasts.

Gleb waits by the heavy wooden door, breathing easier now that he was outside. His Mama comes quickly, baby Sofia held close in her arms. They walk home mostly in silence. Gleb has little interest in snowball fights and snow angels. He got a new notebook and pencils for Christmas, and he would much rather spend the day curled up by the fire, writing down the stories that filled his head.

He is busy with his writing when his Father’s friends come in. He hasn’t seen them in months, but his Father has said it’s dangerous to meet frequently. The house smells like Mama’s cooking. Sofia is laying in her cot, babbling. Gleb looks up from his notebook for just a moment, receiving a smile from one of the men. Another walks past, reaching down to ruffle his hair. His Father enters last, stern and stoic.

They take seats around the table, and Gleb can’t help but perk his ears toward the conversation. For once, he isn’t being sent out of the room. He’s curious. Father leaves the table for a moment, returning with a bottle of vodka.

“Gleb,” his Father calls, and Gleb looks up. He’s being sent away after all. He moves to pack up his notebook and pencils. “Come here.”

Gleb blinks, but he does not disobey. He walks slowly to the table. “Yes, Father?”

“Sit down, Gleb.”

One of the men -- Antosha, his Father calls him -- pulls a chair out for Gleb, and Gleb sinks down, his heart racing. Another man, Vitya, takes the vodka from his Father and pours a glass for Gleb.

“You’re a man now, Gleb,” his Father says. “If you want to stay for our discussion, you’re welcome to.”

Gleb nods, smiling ear-to-ear. It’s an even better Christmas present than his notebook. He sits quietly while he listens to the men talk. He is still too young to really understand what everyone is saying, but he listens to them complain about the Tsar’s policies, about the constant stream of prisoners being moved through their quiet town. They gripe and groan while Gleb slowly sips the vodka. It burns his throat, and makes him cough but he drinks all of it, the taste of manhood.

The more Gleb listens, the more he understands. This is his Father's Mass, a communion of ideas, not of something distant or arcane. Why would Father attend the church of God when the church of Men feels so much more real and true? Why put faith in the God who he's been told is loving, and yet bows to the Tsar’s endless parade of misery? The men talk, and he drinks up every word of their sermon. A man of Ideas has no need for any other Church. He wants to be a man, just like his Father, strong, and full of conviction. Not a fussing fretting man, too much like an old woman. Father had given him a choice, and he makes it without even thinking.

Christmas is the last time Gleb sets foot in the Church.


	12. Dmitry - St. Petersburg, Russia, 1907

Dmitry is surprised at how easy it is to sneak into the kitchens of the palace. The cooks and other servants are too distracted by making sure the food was ready to go out to the nobility. Beyond the doors, the sounds of the grand party echoes, laughter and music, all foreign to him. No one notices a scamp like him now. It’s just as easy to loot the drawers as it was to sneak inside, pieces of silverware now his to claim

Knives, forks, and spoons all end up in the little bag tucked under his shirt. He giggles to himself as he runs his hands over it, marvelling at the pieces. Silver, all used by the Empress herself! And if it wasn’t true, who would know better? Footsteps echo in the room beyond. It was high time he left with his prizes. As quickly as he had entered, he slips out of the kitchen, finding himself in a darkened hallway. Too many people now to leave the way he’d come. He can see light shining through a doorway, the sounds of a party louder there. The hallway it had to be then. Surely, there’d be an exit somewhere.

Dmitry has always been a quick learner, and the streets are a far more efficient teacher than even his Papa had been. He’s learned now, how to hide his things so no one will steal them. He’s learned how to beg, how to wheedle scraps of food from the Babushkas and coins from wide-eyed young ladies. He’s learned how to pick pockets, and how to fence his stolen goods. He is quick, he is small, and he is clever. What more does he need?

The dimly lit hallway seems to wind forever. This is nothing like his streets, with the open sky above and every route engraved on his memory. It isn’t right. His eyes dart all around, looking for any doorways, seeking the escape route that has to be there  _ someplace _ . Nothing leaps out. There are no doors or other halls, and the windows start seeming like better options by the minute. And then he hears the voices.

“Vlad… You can’t be so bold! I have a husband you know.”

“My darling Lily, your husband doesn’t scare me. Run away with me! We’d be happy together, you know we would.”

Dmitry freezes. The voices are just around the corner. He ducks quickly behind a pillar, holding his breath, and trying to ignore the awful wet sounds that start up.

“I’ll be just a moment, Vovo. Go ahead without me~”

There are footsteps right in front of Dmitry. He closes his eyes, praying to anyone who could hear that he won’t be seen.

The man sighs, and Dmitry lets his guard down for just a moment. He shifts on his feet, and the cutlery in his bag rattles. The man looks around, his eyes settling on Dmitry hidden behind the pillar.

“Come out here, boy.” Dmitry hesitates for a moment before stepping out. Perhaps if he just follows orders the man will be kind. He can invent a story, find a way…

The man looks him up and down once, and Dmitry is about to bolt when he laughs. “I’m not going to hurt you boy. What are you doing here?”

“I… was just on my way b-back to the kitchens.”

“Ah yes. The kitchens are… the opposite direction, aren’t they?”

Dmitry sucks in a breath.  _ Caught.  _ The man laughs again. “M-maybe they are. ‘M sorry, sir ’m awful new and--”

“That’s quite alright boy. You can call me Vlad.”

He swallows as he looks up at the man, who seems to be asking questions without speaking.

“M’ D-dmitry.”

The man’s whole body seemed to vibrate with his chortling. He gives Dmitry another once over, and the boy holds himself tense, trying harder than ever to look the part of a lost kitchen boy.

“With a bit of practice well… You’d pass as my own boy!”

Dmitry blinks, confused. This hasn’t been what he’s expected at all. The man is obviously some kind of noble, wearing a sumptuous uniform trimmed with braid, decorated with medals. He should be demanding guards, having Dmitry turn out his bag and threatening all kinds of awful punishments. But he’s… amused? He keeps his mouth shut, afraid to ruin it.

“A clever boy like you is going to go far in this world… But only if you’re careful.”

The man stands suddenly, looking down the hall and muttering under his breath.

“You don’t have much time my boy. Take this. If anyone else finds you, say you’re running an errand for Countess Malevsky-Malevitch, alright?”

Dmitry nods, before looking at what the man had passed him. He gasps as it sparkles, red as blood.

“S-sir I… is this...? You can’t!”

The man merely winks, holding a finger up to his lips. “Our little secret. The exit is that way. Step quick now!”

More footsteps echo from around the corner, and Dmitry only just has time to scamper behind the pillar again. He watches a lovely woman step around the corner, her heels clacking on the floor. An air of mischief surrounds her, cat-like grin and sparkling eyes drawing him in, and he can understand just why this Vlad was sneaking around back halls now.

“Oh Vovo, you didn’t have to wait for me. I told you I was coming.~”

As she rounds the corner, Dmitry has to stifle a gasp, a small section of the brilliant dress sparkling less than the rest, little gaps that most wouldn’t notice, little gaps where brilliant red stones had once been set. His heart pounds as the man catches his eye, turning a shooing gesture into a hug as he embraces his lady love.

“Ahh, and be seperated from my little rose any longer? I think not!”

“Oh you flatterer! There’s no need to fret, we’re here now.” Her tone was happy, but then she sighed, and her shoulders fell. “Still… It’s a shame the Dowager won’t be attending. She’s staying in Paris indefinitely, or so the reports say. And with the Imperial family all cooped up in the Alexander Palace… St. Petersburg just isn’t what it used to be.”

“I know, Lily. The parties aren’t what they used to be. But… we can still enjoy what there is, and what we’re ever so lucky to have.” he pulled the countess in for a kiss, but she stopped him, pushing back gently.

“Those girls deserve to be a part of our society. And little Alexei! We’ve hardly seen the boy, and he’s supposed to be our Tsar someday! I understand that her Imperial Majesty doesn’t want to overwhelm them but… it’s their birthright!”

“Of course, Lily. Come, they’ll be missing us soon…”

The couple walks away, disappearing into the maze that was this strange other world. Dmitry waits several minutes more before dashing the way Vlad had indicated. The ruby he’s been given burns in his palm. It is far too precious to just toss into a bag. He’ll have to be careful with it. And he’ll have to be more careful the next time he paid a palace a visit, even if it seems he isn’t the only con about.

Getting caught again isn’t an option.


	13. Gleb - Yekaterinburg, Russia, 1907

Gleb’s notebooks are full of musings. His Father’s words and ideas consume every waking moment. He keeps them hidden, buried beneath his socks in the back of his drawer.

It has become commonplace for Gleb to sit with his Father in the evenings, after dinner. They discuss philosophy and politics. Adult matters. The kinds of things that just a few months ago, Gleb would not have been allowed to think about. Sometimes, Stepan Vaganov even pours Gleb a small glass of vodka.

Gleb takes pride in having his Father’s attention now. He listens eagerly, absorbing the words with a zealousness he hadn’t known he possessed. His Father is, Gleb thinks, pleased by how Gleb is learning and growing.

The chill of Winter is still present in the mid-march air. They walk through the streets of Yekaterinburg, boots crunching on the roads. The meeting this time had been at Vitya’s house.

“Father?”

“Yes Gleb?”

“Uncle Vitya’s wife stayed for the meeting. Why doesn’t Mama stay when it’s at our house?”

His father sighs. “Your Mama just… doesn’t understand.”

“Is it because she’s a woman, Father?”

“Not at all. It has nothing to do with being a woman. Your Mama is simply… content to keep things the way they are. Your Aunt Irina on the other hand, she wants a better world for her family.”

“But Uncle Vitya and Aunt Irina don’t have any children. She isn’t even pregnant.”

“They married recently. It’s a natural thing, to wait to have children.”

Gleb is quiet for a moment. His Mama and Father married young, and Gleb was born shortly after. Perhaps that is not Natural? Perhaps that is not what is done. “Most women are like Mama, aren’t they?” This question earns a laugh from his Father.

“No woman is like your Mama. She’s a force to be reckoned with in her own way.”

A gunshot echoes through the quiet streets. The sound has become familiar to Gleb, but he still flinches out of instinct. He knows what that sound means. Another life, taken by the Tsar’s army.

Stepan’s steps increase, and Gleb follows. He notices his Father glancing behind them every few steps. They are so distracted by the noise from behind that they don’t pay attention to what’s ahead. They are nearly home when a cossack steps out into the road ahead of them.

“Good evening,” Stepan Vaganov mutters, keeping his head down and angling his body between the cossack and Gleb.

“Good evening,” the man replies. The barrel of his rifle shines in the moonlight. “It’s awfully late for such a young boy to be out. What’s your business?”

“My son is becoming a man,” Stepan replies. “It’s hardly a conversation to have in front of women, don’t you think?”

The cossack nods, relaxing. “We’ve just been told to watch for suspicious characters. One can’t be too careful these days.”

Gleb is about to open his mouth and protest that he and his Father are hardly  _ suspicious _ , but then he’s being dragged away by his Father. They walk quickly, focused solely on returning to their home. Question bubble up in his mind, but the blackened glares his father gives him silence better than fear of the cossack and his gun. Gleb can’t wait to be inside, to be safe in their sanctuary.

He takes his notebooks from their hiding place that night. He keeps them under his pillow as he sleeps. Tomorrow, he will find a new hiding place, somewhere safe and protected. The cossack’s words echo in his head.  _ Suspicious people _ . His Father isn’t suspicious. His Father’s friends aren’t suspicious. Gleb couldn’t possibly be suspicious. They had done nothing wrong! There were no laws about walking after dark, and if there were, then surely those laws were unjust. Another unfair restraint the Tsar has placed on them. More tyranny for them to bear, because of some misguided fear, some paranoid delusion. Gleb knows his father. Father wouldn’t dare do anything suspicious, wouldn’t dare to hurt anyone.

Gleb sighs, shifting on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position. The world is changing, and not for the better.


	14. Anastasia - Tsarkoye Selo, Russia, 1907

Anastasia skips toward Auntie Lily, beaming for the first time in months. Auntie Lily was Nana’s closest confidant, after all, even if Nana wouldn’t admit to having a confidant.

“And how is my favorite little princess?” Auntie asks as Anastasia wraps her in a hug.

“Much better,” she answers. Anastasia is practically vibrating. Maybe Auntie Lily has news about Nana! Maybe Nana is coming to visit soon!

“Well that’s wonderful to hear.”

“Is… Is Nana coming soon? It’s been so long since she’s visited, so long since I’ve seen her. Please, Auntie Lily, you must know something right?”

Auntie Lily’s face falls for just a moment, and Anastasia’s heart falls with it. She knows what that face means.

“I’m sure she’ll come to visit soon, dearest. You know she hates being separated from you.”

“It’s just… she didn’t come for Christmas, a-and she always comes for Christmas!” the girl’s voice wavers, her eyes scrunching up and lip quivering.

Auntie Lily smiles and hugs Anastasia tightly. It’s meant to be reassuring, but all it makes her feel sick to her stomach. Nana is staying in Paris, perhaps forever. Who knows when she’ll get to see her again?

“Why don’t you take me to see your Mama and Papa, hmm?”

“Yes Auntie…”

Anastasia takes Aunt Lily’s hand and leads her through the halls of the Alexander Palace, even though Auntie knew the way. She tried to forget her disappointment, letting her eyes wander. She’s captivated by the lights reflecting off her aunt’s dress. The red silk is covered in hundreds of tiny rubies, all set into elaborate embroidery. Anastasia stares at the patterns, tracing them with her eyes. Her brow furrows as she settles on a patch of the shoulder.

“Auntie Lily, your dress is missing rubies!”

“What are you talking about, Nastasya?”

“On your shoulder! It’s like… It’s like someone picked them off your dress!”

Auntie Lily says something quietly. Anastasia is fairly certain it’s not a phrase she should ever repeat. “I know exactly who it was that did that. I’ll be having words with him.”

They stop outside Papa’s office, and Aunt Lily pats Anastasia’s hair. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course Auntie.” Anastasia nods as Lily knocks on the door and her Papa opens it. Anastasia smiles once again as she leaves, making her way back to the playroom. Perhaps… Perhaps she’ll be able to see Nana in the Summer. Auntie hadn’t said no, and she was here so often… she’d have to write a letter, to give to her. Then Auntie could pass it on, when she went to Paris again! Nana couldn’t ignore a letter. She just couldn’t.


End file.
